The Ballad of the Terrible Cowtipper
by Jack Spheniscidae Enterprises
Summary: In the West, the Terrible Cowtipper has returned after John Marston put him behind bars to begin a new reign of terror against the cattle farmers of the West. After hearing of his father's battle with this dastardly outlaw at a campfire story session, it's up to Jack Marston to finish what his father started before this crook can go too far.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an old idea I've had ever floating around in my head for quite some time, and I've always hesitated to actually do something with it as I've always wanted to write a piece for RDR but was unable to think of anything that was worth putting down in words and this idea just didn't seem like much to go off on. One day, I might actually write a serious RDR fanfiction, but for now, this will have to do.**

**I was originally going to write this in the style of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, but for this mini-series, I ultimately settled on a conventional narrative style.  
**

* * *

The night had been silent, the ambience broken only sporadically by the cry of nightbirds. It was a full moon tonight, a great big globe of light hanging in a blanket of stars. A man stood on a hill, watching the black sky ahead of him. He squinted his eyes, making out faint landmarks. Fort Mercer, Plainview, and below him the rushing waters of the San Luis River. And his eyes darted to the Ramita de la Baya.

"Well, no sense in holdin' off this ride home any longer. Nuevo Paraiso is a nice place, but I can't stay here forever even if they are tearin' up New Austin and West Elizabeth for my head right now. I ought to visit Pa, Ma, and Uncle to let 'em know how I'm doin'… and clear my slate in the process somehow too." Jack Marston said to himself. He whistled a shrill note. Then the quiet glass of the night was shattered instantly as the sound of rushing hooves grew louder and louder until a large black horse was in front of him. It was a fast horse, and he liked it. Jack foresaw having to outrun some less than welcoming folks the moment he walked back onto American soil. And speaking of less-than-welcoming folks…

"That's Jack Marston!" He heard a voice echo through the air. He had run afoul of a British gambling champ while gambling in Nuevo Paraiso. And what an inconvenient time for this to happen. A man in a top hat and white suit, with an extremely elaborate mustache and goatee on his chin, faced Jack. He carried a rifle, and a legion of hired Mexicans on mules followed him. "You'll pay for robbing me of my fortune, Marston, you miserable American sod!"

"C'mon, Mr. Earwicker, it's gambling!" Jack said, hoping to defuse the situation before it led to the inevitable. "Sometimes you take a shot that doesn't pay off in the end, and you know, you gotta suck up your losses and move on!"

"Well, this shot is one that's going to certainly pay off… with your blood! I know about the price Archer Fordham had placed on your head, and I'm gonna be rich after I bring your head to him!" Mr. Earwicker swore as he got ready to pull the trigger on his gun. Jack sighed, and fired his Mauser. Earwicker screamed as the bullets slammed into his hand, knocking his grip off of the horse's reins. The horses and mules neighed in fear as the sounds of Jack's pistol spooked them greatly. But unlike the Mexicans and their mules, Mr. Earwicker was in no position to control his horse. And as an unintended side effect, he somehow got tied up and dragged behind the horse as it galloped off.

"Wow… Senor Marston, you truly are as deadly as the rumors say!" One of the Mexicans said in amazement as they watched the cursing Earwicker get dragged away into the horizon.

"So, are we on good terms?" Jack asked.

"Well, he wasn't paying us any good amount of pesos, so yes, I believe we are, Senor Marston!"

"I'll be off, then!" Jack said.

"See you again real soon, Senor Marston!" All the Mexicans said as they rode away.

Jack Marston stroked the mane of his horse, an American standardbred. He checked his ammo and supplies, making sure that he need not make a last minute detour to Chuparosa for gear. "Alrighty then, Josey, let's go!" With a yee-haw, Jack Marston seized the reins of his horse and held on tight as he galloped down the hill towards the bridge. Within minutes, he had crossed the river and was back in New Austin.

Just another day in his crazy life…

* * *

"Woah, what is it, Josey? Another rattlesnake? Or a cougar?" Jack asked as his horse veered to a stop. He held on with all his might, almost getting tossed off. "It's alright, it's alright!" Jack reassured his horse. No, there was definitely no killer wildlife round these parts for the moment, but he could hear what had spooked his standardbred. There was music ahead of him, and Jack could see the faint lights of an orange campfire. Jack, with a cautious trek forward, went towards the fire. He kept one hand at his Mauser pistol ready, just in case he happened to trek into another nest of bounty hunters or gang members who wanted to take out all their rage regarding his Pa on Jack.

That was one of the downsides that came with being John Marston's boy. Aside from having to clean up all his father's loose ties, he also had the burden of inheriting John Marston's fame. There were some perks, yes, but there were also all the downsides of having to deal with all the fame-seekers who decided to boost up their rep by being the one to kill John Marston. With John dead, rather than find someone new to pester, they all seemed to decide that killing Jack would suffice.

And truth be told, Jack knew that there was another problem. Even after all these months, he was still confused about what he was going to do. After killing Ross, Jack didn't feel the retribution he was expecting. The sonofabitch who killed his paw was dead with one clean revolver shot to the head, but where was his sense of fulfillment? The reward? Jack only felt emptiness and uncertainty as the San Luis river washed Ross's corpse away. His pa was still dead, and now he had just made the wrong sort of name for himself by killing one of the Bureau's former top men.

Once upon a time, Jack had dreamed of being a writer. He would write about men like his Pa, as well as the legends like Red Harlow and Landon Ricketts. Action-packed, dramatic adventures that would appeal to everybody. He would become famous and go on tours across the world. His Pa, never the most educated of fellows but the most caring that Jack knew, had wanted him to become a rancher. Make something of Beecher's Hope, live the good honest life John could only dream of having.

But with each passing day, both of those dreams seemed to be just that. Dreams. A series of broken dreams spiraling further and further away from possibility with each second Jack was alive on this Earth. He had only meant to kill Edgar Ross… but the Marston legacy was proving to be a hard sort of life to escape. It was like a chain of dominoes… and if only Jack could've saw that getting his revenge was the first domino in line.

Jack sighed. He was sure that eventually he would figure out what he was going to do in this crazy world. Maybe seeing his family's graves for the first time since he rode off to take down Ross would help clear his mind a bit. Sure would do it better than his umpteenth shot of tequila, victory in Liar's Dice at Escalera, or screaming Mexican bandit dragged off to the authorities had done, anyhow. Well, either that, or a bullet or the noose would do it for him.

Jack reached the campfire. No cops, marshals, or bounty hunters. Just a bunch of travelers. Jack breathed a small breath of relief. Last thing he needed on his plate right now were another ten men in newly dug graves on account of him.

"Hey, sir. Wish to join our little fireside circle?" A man with a small fiddle asked him. There were several other men with instruments sitting around him, including fellows painted in blackface or red war paint. A goddamn traveling minstrel show, their faces illuminated with stark lighting by the flickering flames of the campfire.

"Well, might as well have something to pass the time with. I ain't in no big hurry to get to Armadillo anyhow." Jack said as he tied Josey to a nearby tear, and joined the fire.

"Now that we've gotten another member for our audience, why don't we start up another show?" The man with the fiddle said. Pointing towards a red-haired girl dressed like a boy sitting in a wagon a bit away from the fire, he asked: "What would you like to hear, Sam?"

"How about the story of Horrible Huey and the Gory Kablooie?" The girl said with a noticeable taint of apathy, leaning back. She was doing something funny was her voice, Jack observed.

"Goddamn it, not that again… we've been doing nothin' but Horrible Huey crap for ten months now!" The fiddle man cursed, and he turned to Jack. "Well, he ain't gonna be much help. But I reckon you will want to hear somethin' played, don't ya, stranger?"

"You mean she?"

"What? Oh, I see what you mean! Comedian, aren't ya? So anyways, you wanna hear a story or not?"

"Well, that depends…" Jack Marston asked. "What sorta stories you know?"

"A lot."

"Anything about John Marston?" Jack felt a collective shudder roll through the other denizens at the campfire.

"Somethin' I said?" Jack asked.

"Well, John Marston and the rest of Dutch's gang one day…" The Fiddle Man said, trying to hold back the tears… "It was just a routine trip to the bank, and my uncle was just standing there mindin' his own business… John and that wench Abigail… they… they just… nevermind, it's just too much. But yes, I do know a story about John Marston."

"Oh, what is it?" Jack asked with curiosity. His father had never told him much about his life before the ranch.

"It's just a rumor, but the events of this story happened recently… in fact, only a couple of years ago. Judgin' by your face I'd reckon you were just goin' through puberty when that happened." The Fiddle Man explained.

"Go on, you got my attention." Jack asked, not having the heart to tell the Fiddle Man what he really thought. Where the hell was a good book to read yourself to sleep with when you needed one?

"This story is not just about John Marston, but also about his quarry. You see, in Tall Trees there once lived a boy frustrated with his life. He was doggone tired of being treated like an insignificant speck of dust. And he was determined to make somethin' of his name b'fore the reaper came for him. So one day, this boy steals a horse from a traveler and makes his way south. When he gets to New Austin, he stops at Thieves' Landing and he falls in with the Bollards Twin's Gang…"

"So then what?"

"Well, he tries to do their thing. Robbery, kidnappin', and just causin' other sorts of general mayhem for the unfortunate residents of New Austin. But the thing is, the reason everybody b'fore has always treated this boy like dust is cause he's a bit of a puss. He thinks he's a real macho, deadly outlaw sorta type, but his own dick's too tiny to ever make that possible. Shrivels at the sheer possibility of getting' somethin' as tiny as a papercut. So he runs away from the Bollard Twins, and before long he's run away from the Treasure Hunters and Walton's gang as well. This boy finally decides to go into business for himself, but he decides to do something that's safer… baby steps, he makes excuses."

"So what does he do?"

"He gathers a posse of equally frustrated 90-pound weaklings such as himself, and they form a gang. A gang that terrorizes the West on a level that has never been seen before! He is the leader of this nefarious gang… THE TERRIBLE COWTIPPER!"

"I'm sorry, but that last bit sorta sounds like bullshit to me." Jack said.

"Shut up. Who's telling this story? You or me?"

"Well, I'm sorry. It's just"

"Creative license, goddamn you!" The fiddle man yelled, cutting Jack short.

"Geez, I'm sorry!" Jack said apologetically. He could see the other band members nodding their heads to him in battered sympathy.

"Good. Now, as I was saying, he eventually runs afoul of John Marston. Now this is when that fucking son of a bitch murderer was tryin' to go straight or some shit. The rest of the tale sorta went like this…" The Fiddle Man began to play his instrument. Jack sighed. Might as well stay and listen to what this traveling band of crazies had to say.


	2. Chapter 2

"Will you be gone long, Pa?" Jack Marston asked as he watched from the porch of the Marston family house in Beecher's Hope, looking as John dragged a palomino from the stable.

"I won't be gone long, Jack. I promise. Look after your ma and this place while I'm away." John told him as he mounted the palomino. "You think you can do that all by yourself?" John asked, motioning towards the passed-out Uncle, who was slumped under a tree with a bottle of whiskey rolling away from him. He looked at his son. The scars from his grizzly hunt were just starting to heal up. "If you think anything I'm askin' of ya is too mu"

"I'm sure we'll be fine, Pa. I ain't no kid anymore. I can look after myself and Ma." Jack said, with some of the uncertain bitterness in his voice that John had grown familiar to.

"Good, Jack. Make me proud, boy." John told his son as he spurred his horse and rode off.

John Marston rode long. Within a span of hours he passed through Great Plains and into New Austin through a shallow creek. He rode through the swampy cesspit that was Thieves' Landing, past the sounds of a gunshot-filled scuffle that had broken out in the saloon. And eventually, as he retraced a trail he had rode on so many times before, John Marston arrived at MacFarlane's Ranch. By then, it was nighttime. With a yawn, John rode to his old room. To his surprise the MacFarlane's hadn't rented it out to anyone else yet.

He would do what he came here to do in the morning. But for now, it was time to catch a few winks. And dream a dream of what was to come. It certainly hadn't been easy, but John felt content. He had finally escaped that old life with Dutch's passing and he looked forward to seeing what he could build with the new lease that he had been granted. It was a new age for this old dog…

Could even someone like him start anew though? He pondered that question as he pulled a few stiff sheets over him, his head resting on a lumpy pillow. He was no goddamn angel, that he knew for certain. But hadn't he paid enough reparation for his actions? He had lost a daughter and he had betrayed all his old friends to damnation. He was redeemed. What more could he give? Words from a stranger rang in his head over and over. T_ell me your name, or I won't be responsible for my actions. _John had said to the man in black. But the Stranger had only replied with _Oh, but you will. You will be responsible_.

What did those words mean?

Almost absentmindedly, his last thought before he drifted to the land of Nod, John wondered why he brought his bandoleer and his trusty cattleman with him. He was a rancher now, not a cowboy anymore.

* * *

He hadn't dreamed that night. With a yawn, John Marston returned to the world of the living. He put on his rancher clothes, and strapped on his guns. He strolled outside, stroking his horse as he did, and walked towards the MacFarlane's house. Reaching the front door, he knocked loudly twice. A few seconds after he did it opened up. John had been expecting Bonnie but instead he found himself looking into the white mustached-face of Drew MacFarlane.

"John!" Drew exclaimed with surprise. "What are you doing back here? I thought you had your own ranch to take care of!"

"I know that, Drew. Say, where's Bonnie?"

"Bonnie took a wagon to Armadillo at the first caw of the cock this morning."

"What for?"

"Nothing real important, John." Drew said, although John had a feeling that there was something that Bonnie's father wasn't telling him. "So John, what brings you back to our humble ranch?"

"I was thinkin' of buyin' some cattle for my own ranch." John said.

"Oh." Drew's expression drooped.

"What's wrong?" John asked as he noticed Drew's sudden change of expression.

"I suppose there's no point in tryin' to hide that not even a ranch as big as ours is not safe from the wrath of his posse…"

"Whose posse? Have the local gangs been harassin' you folks again?" John asked.

"I better show you first." Drew and John rushed to the cattle pens, where to John's horror he saw an entire pen filled with cows that had been pushed to their sides! The sound was alive with the panting sounds of sweaty ranchhands as they tried to right the unfortunate bovines upright. His heart did curls as he saw the cows helplessly moo as they tried to right themselves before the ranchhands could make it to them.

"My God… who could've done such a horrible thing?" John said. "Thank God I didn't take Jack with me… no one should ever have to see such a Godless, hideous sort of action. It would've scarred him for life… maybe even set him off on that path!"

At that moment, Bonnie's wagon rushed back into the ranch. The horses pulling it reared to a stop as the wagon stopped in front of John and Drew. Instantly, Bonnie MacFarlane along with Marshal Johnson and his deputies hopped out of the wagon.

"Holy sweet mother of mercy!" Eli cried, instantly covering his eyes.

"Oh fuckin' Jeezus Christ, not again!" Jonah keeled over instantaneously, vomiting his breakfast onto the dirt as he witnessed the bovine carnage in front of them.

"Marshal, Ms. MacFarlane, what in God's name is going on here?" John demanded.

"It's been goin' on for some time now." The Marshal replied. "At first we thought it was just some prank bein' pulled off by some bored kids… but clearly, this is the work of a deranged mastermind."

"How so, if you don't mind me askin', Marshal? Surely a deranged mastermind would have somethin' better to do with his evil genius." John question.

"Well, John, y'see… it's not like any regular cowtipper… what this tipper is doing is terrible in comparison. Hence his nickname all us ranchers have given him, the Terrible Cowtipper." Bonnie explained.

"I don't see how tippin'cows one way makes it worse than the other."

"Well you see, usually, an average cowtipper pushes the cow using its right side. Right side, just the way the natural order of things goes." Bonnie continued. "But the Terrible Cowtipper… this sonofabitch pushes them using the left side first!"

"So what different does this make?" John tried to stop himself from laughing. "C'mon, Ms. MacFarlane, it's just a matter of preference. What difference could left vs. right make?"

"Take a look!" Marshal Johnson told him. A ranchhand, having righted a cow, tried to herd it. But instead, the cow bellowed and knocked the ranchhand away screaming, and it charged right out of the pen, smashing down the fence until it hit the wall of the doctor's store, knocking itself out.

"What in God's unholy offshoot's name?"

"Somehow, being tipped with the left side does something to the cow. Induces some sorta post-trauma reaction whenever a fella lays his hands on the poor cow's hide. They don't snap outta this trauma until months later!" Bonnie said. "It's impossible to get 'em herded in this state… entire ranches have been ruined like this!"

"Ms. McFarlane, do you need my help again?" John asked, concerned for the future wellbeing of his friends.

"Naw, Mr. Marston. Our ranch is big enough that a few late runs of cattle won't hurt us much… but for smaller ranches such as yours, the delay could be quite catastrophic."

"Well then, it's a good thing I haven't gotten around to makin' a buck off of cattle yet." John joked.

"I'd laugh, but this isn't the time." Marshal Johnson said with graveness. " Something has to be done about the Terrible Cowtipper before he causes the entire cattle industry to collapse! I've even had to postpone my hunt for the Coot's Chapel Cunt Cutters because of this. That's how bad the Terrible Cowtipper is making things."

"What can we do?" Bonnie asked the men. "The Terrible Cowtipper never hits the same place twice! There's no telling where he can strike next!"

"I've arranged for U.S. marshals to be sent to every ranch in New Austin that hasn't been hit yet, but West Elizabeth is out of my jurisdiction." Marshal Johnson said. "That means Beecher's Hope ain't safe if you plannin' on herdin' cattle anytime soon, John."

"Anyone offer any bright ideas so far?" John asked.

"Well this traveling salesman, Nigel something Dickens, came by a few weeks ago." Drew MacFarlane said. "Said if we feed his ancient Chinese elixir to the cows, it would make 'em immune to tippin'. I swear, if I see that portly son of a bitch again… it ain't just my fifty bucks I'm getting' back from him."

"You know the general store owner in town?" Eli asked them. Jonah was still vomiting and sobbing, unable to get the horrors and evils of humanity that the state of the cows had showed him.

"Herbert Moon?" Marshal replied.

"Yeah, that's the guy. I was in the store the other day lookin' for some apples when he sprouts off on how the Terrible Cowtipper is a collaborative Indian-nigger-Jew plot… he says if we take the initiative to run out all 'em darkies, redskins, and Hebrews the Cowtipper will just go away."

"Well, we can't do that sorta thing again. Remember the fuck-up after we listened to him while huntin' for Quick Mike and Davey-Boy…" Marshal sighed. "The family of those we hung still haven't forgiven us to date…"

"You know, I think I gotta plan…" John interrupted.

"What is it, Mr. Marston?" Bonnie asked.

"Ms. Macfarlane, how much is it for some of your cows?"

"What? Mr. Marston, you can't be serious. Look at 'em." Bonnie pointed at the shell-shocked legions of bovines haplessly milling about or the battle-scarred bulls that were rushing out of the pen in a confused fear. "These cattle ain't worth shit."

"Then I can have 'em for free, right?"

"I guess… but what the hell are you getting' at, Mr. Marston?"

"I'm going to lure the Terrible Cowtipper into a trap. Put out the word that Beecher's Hope has just received a fresh shipment of cattle, untouched. When he comes to Beecher's Hope to do some tips, I'll be waitin' for him with my guns at ready."

"And kill him?" The Marshal asked.

"No, I ain't that sorta man anymore. I don't even wanna hurt him, to be honest. I'm just gonna scare some sense into him, show him that messin' with cattle owners isn't the best thing he could be doin' with his life, and let the law in Blackwater do the dirty work. I'm through with gunslingin' and bounty huntin' and I'm hopin' that after I take care of him, it stays that way."

"Hmm… that might actually work." Bonnie said. "Alright, Mr. Marston, I'll let you have some of our cattle. But you're gonna need me and Pa's help gettin' em to your ranch in one piece."

"I appreciate that, Ms. Macfarlane. But just remember this while we're ridin' back, I'm already married!"

They all laughed before getting down to business.

* * *

The sun was setting when they arrived back at Beecher's Hope. The cattle refused to keep moving after going past the gate, standing still with dazed expressions in their eyes, making no sound but truly unnerving moos.

"Mr. Marston, you should let me and Pa stay and help you with this fella. We owe him a little somethin' after what he did to our cows."

"I'd appreciate that, Ms. Macfarlane, but I don't want either of you getting hurt because of my plan. If he's as dangerous as everyone has been saying he is, it should be me alone that takes him on."

"Alright then, Mr. Marston… well, it was good seein' you again, John, although I wish it could've been in much better circumstances." Bonnie said as she rode off.

"Me too, Ms. Macfarlane." John sighed as he looked down at his guns.

"Well, John, if you ever need anythin' like some good cows or a drink, you know where to get it. See you soon!" Drew said as he rode off to catch up to his daughter.

"Appreciate everythin' that you two have done!" John called back while waving good-bye to the Macfarlanes. He hoped this wouldn't be the last time he saw 'em, and he was certain it wouldn't be. After all, what could possibly happen to the Marston family out here in tiny little Beecher's Hope other than the occasional cougar or wolf wandering in? Jack and Abigail were coming out to see what the fuss was about.

"Holy shit! What the hell happened to those cows?" Jack asked as he looked over the line of cattle in the middle of Beecher's Hope.

"Nothin' that concerns you, boy." John said. "This is Pa's personal business, son."

"Fine then, Pa. I understand." Jack said with a sigh as he walked back to his room. "Always is, isn't it?"

"John…" Abigail started. "You know it's been a rough time for Jack ever since you came back…"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out like that way to the boy. But what I'm about to do… it's going to be dangerous. I nearly lost the boy to the grizzly cause he thought he could prove it to me that he didn't need my constant guidance… I sure as heck ain't gonna let no goddamn wannabe desperado finish the job. I don't want Jack to be caught up in the allure of gunslinging if things go down. Both of us, Abby… we've thrown away enough of our lives to that crap. I want Jack away from this sorta violence… get to become the man I never was! Hell, he doesn't even have to be a rancher! As long as it ain't dirty or violent like the shit we did with Dutch, I'm fine with anythin' Jack wishes to be! He could even be a writer when he grows up, for God's sake! I want him to be anythin' but me!"

"I see, John. But maybe you should take the time to talk to him personally."

"I've already done so many times. I'm just hoping he's managed to see what I want from him, and understand why…" John sighed. "Well, might as well get a bit of grub in before I get to work. What's in the pot t'night, Abby?"

"Special thing, John. Crow stew instead of the usual rat stew!"

"Oh, I'm just lookin' forward to seein' what you've managed to make it taste like…" John said somewhat sarcastically as he walked into his home.

* * *

Just as John had predicted, when night fell and the moon rose up into the sky, the Terrible Cowtipper and his posse arrived to do their business. As John crouched hidden on his front porch in the shadows, he was shocked by the size of the posse. He had expected a scant few, but goddamn this was like the population of an entire town! Did he have enough bullets? Would he even last through the night? If he didn't… what would happen to John and Abby? Marston's heart clenched, but his resolve to take care of this bovine-hurtin' meddlers grew stronger. Then his fear dwindled down as he saw just what the posse looked like illuminated in the moonlight. They were the skinniest, puniest outlaws he had ever seen! He bet he could've lifted them all off the ground with little ease with just his palm! Hell, even Jack could do it!

The Terrible Cowtipper, the one in the center with everybody else riding behind him, dismounted his horse – a sickly, pus-oozing nag. He wore heeled boots to boost his height, and multiple layers of clothing to make himself appear more muscular. When he spoke, he spoke with a squeaky high-pitched voice.

"So, these unsuspecting ranchers think they can start a business herdin' cattle, do they?" The Terrible Cowtipper laughed. "Not if I have a say in the matter."

He tipped one of Macfarlane's cows down. Then he stopped before doing the same to the rest.

"Somethin' wrong, boss?"

"There's something odd about this. I swear I could've tipped this moo-moo before." The Terrible Cowtipper then bent over the cow, as to check it for branding. John could hear the burst of panic in his voice when he next spoke. "Goddamn, it's a Macfarlane cow! But what the hell's it doin' out here, in some pissant's useless farm?"

"Boy, I sure as hell ain't no pissant and this farm ain't gone be so useless when I get it up and runnin." John stepped out of the shadows, making himself known to the outlaws. He readied himself for the firefight to come, hopin' that he could minimize the men that would be put into graves cause of him. But instead of firin', more than half of the posse suddenly bolted the way they had come!

"What the hell? Come back here, you pussies! It's just some old faggot!"

"Are you shitting me, Timmy? That's John fucking Marston! I sure as hell ain't stickin' around with you anymore – I might actually get hurt!" One of them said as he rode out of sight. In the end, there were only five others who hadn't run.

"Boy, I'm happily married to the greatest lady the world has ever known. If you know what's good for you, you'll give up this cowtippin' business, boy."

"I ain't no boy, and I ain't gonna give up cowtippin' either!"

"Trust me, you do not wanna go down this path!" John yelled at the Cowtipper, trying to make him see sense. "You're gonna throw away the best years of your life on the road you're travelin', and it's gonna come back to bite you in the ass when you've finally had enough and think you can get away from it!"

"Aw, look who's sayin' this! John Marston, the goddamn outlaw and bounty hunter! You're a fucking legend cause of what you've done hurting other people! And that's what I wanna be!" The Cowtipper laughed. "What a fucking joke!"

"It ain't no fucking joke. You wanna throw away your life in exchange for some fame?"

"I had no life before I became an outlaw!" The Cowtipper yelled at John. "I was a useless clod that everybody treated like dirt just cause they was bigger and stronger! But now, people fear me! I'm destined for great things now, and I ain't gonna let some fucking hypocrite like you take it away from me!"

"Trust me, son, your minute of fame ain't gonna be worth it in the long run!" John pleaded with the outlaw. "I don't wanna hurt you or your buddies, so why don't you just ride on home?"

"Shut up, you son of a bitch! You don't know what it's like to be worthless and insignificant! Absolutely powerless, unable to do anything about the shit you're in except dream a useless dream in your mind! And I ain't gonna go back to that life ever again!" The Cowtipper cried.

"I do…" John said. "And sometimes, when I look back, I'd rather be like that again than what I became! So go on, get the hell of here!"

"I ain't budgin, you old fart." The Cowtipper withdrew his weapon, as did the rest of his posse. "You know, come to think of it, I can only become famous on tippin' cows for so long."

"What the hell are you blatherin' about, boy?" John asked.

"What I'm saying, you stupid geezer, is that if we kill you, the John Marston, we're gonna be made for life! Boys, on three… two.. o-"

John Marston quickly withdrew his cattleman revolver. Firing off six quick shots in rapid succession, the bullets whizzed through the air with pinpoint accuracy and deadly speed. But instead of sendin' six wannabe criminals to their appointment with the reaper, the bullets merely knocked their guns from their hands, sending the revolvers flying from their reach.

"What the hell?" The posse looked down at their empty hands.

"Listen to me, boys. I can only be patient for so long." John said. "Make something of your lives… be goddamn grateful you still have a life to make something of! Ride on, go back home to your mas and have a serious bit of thinking to think about what you've been doin' with yourselves!" The five posse boys obliged John, but the Cowtipper merely dismounted, pulling back his sleeves.

"What the hell are you doin', son? Go back to your ma and pa!"

"Those fuckers never had any time or care for me… how do you think I got to where I am now? I ain't ever goin' back to them in Tall Trees! I'm gonna become a legend… I'm destined for great things and I'm doin' what has to be done!" The Cowtipper yelled at John before drawing out a large knife. "I'm gonna kill you, John Marston."

"You're clearly outmatched. You know who the hell you're threatening right now?" John heard Jack's voice. Before he could turn around and warn his son back inside, he heard the sound of a Winchester rifle discharging. No! John thought with a frenzy of thoughts. Jack was gonna kill the Cowtipper, and what would happen from there once he's killed one man? A flash of images filled John's mind, each playing a different scenario of what he thought could happen to his son. None of them ending well. But there was only the clack of metal. The knife flew away, a bullet embedded in its blade.

"Jack… how the hell did you do that?"

"Just the way you showed me, Pa."

"Good boy, Jack. But why don't you leave the rest of the shootin' tonight to me?" John asked.

"Sure, Pa. I think I've seen enough action to satisfy me before bed anyhow."

"I may be outmatched, but I ain't getting out of here with my ass kicked." The Cowtipper spat. "Even if I can't kill you, John Marston, you're gonna have to kill me! In death, I'll be famous enough!" He laughed before rushing at John with his fists, tackling the surprised John.

"Jack!" John yelled as he grappled with the Cowtipper. "Get inside and get your ma outside! Stay inside afterwards, too!"

"Alright, Pa!" Jack ran inside.

The Cowtipper was even weaker than he looked. With ease, John kicked him off and within a matter of seconds had beaten him to a pulp. Standing over the Cowtipper, John held the barrel of his pistol mere inches from the boy's face. Dear God… John thought. The Cowtipper barely looked older than Jack, and here he was already trying to make himself into a criminal legend.

"Do it… kill me… you're John Marston. That's all you're capable of…" The Cowtipper mumbled as blood dribbled from his mouth. "Make me a star."

John could do it. Put an end to his reign of cowtipping terror right here. But looking down at the helpless kid right now, beaten to an inch of his life by John himself, John felt sick more than anything else. He felt sorry for the kid more than anything too. And he tossed his revolver away.

"No. I ain't that John Marston anymore." And John proceeded to lasso the Cowtipper up.

"John, what is it?" Abigail said as she stumbled out of the house, rubbing her eyes.

"I've just caught the Terrible Cowtipper. Abby, since his ma ain't here right, will you spank some discipline into him?" John asked as he lifted the Cowtipper and placed him onto the back of John's horse.

"Well…" Abigail Marston thought for a while.

"Keep your hands off of me, whore." The Cowtipper spat.

"Watch what you say about a lady, boy."

"…I think I got somethin' better." Abigail said before decking the Cowtipper across the cheek.

"Ow! You bitch! You bitch! My teeth! You'll pay!"

"No, it's only you who's gonna pay tonight." John said. "I ain't takin' you to the law even. I'm taking you back to your ma. Get out of this life, boy. Give up this quest for fame. Eventually you'll understand that it's better to have died as an honest nobody in a peaceful sleep than bullet-riddled legend of the west or shit."

But before John could ride off towards Tall Trees, he heard the roar of a gas-gurgling engine roll into earshot. John whipped his head around, and saw an automobile roll into Beecher's Hope. Goddamn Bureau men… what the hell were they doing here? He recognized Archer Fordham as he stepped out of the car, along with several marshals.

"Hello, Mr. Marston. We'll be taking over from here." Archer said as the Marshals dragged the Cowtipper off of John's horse and dropped him. There was a loud thud as his head banged on the dirt. Archer turned to the helpless Cowtipper. "Timothy Woolvett, you're a public menace, but your reign of terror is at an end. You're gonna be locked up for a long time, kid…"

"Wait… wait, Mr. Marston! You can't let them do this to me!" The cowtipper cried as the Marshals began dragging him to the automobile.

"C'mon, Archer. He's just a kid. He's young. He's stupid. But he'll learn to be less of a public menace with the right guidance." John said.

"Law is law, Mr. Marston." Archer said coldly. "He messed with the cattle barons, and as such he fucked with the national economy. We all have to pay our dues, Mr. Marston. You understand that more than anyone else, do you?"

"All he did was tip some cows." John replied. "Fine him! He's done nothin' that requires him bein' dragged off to prison!"

"Listen to me, Mr. Marston. You enjoy your life on this ranch, don't you? All alone with your lovely family? Peaceful, isn't it? Content at last, are you? Tell me, Mr. Marston, is it going to be worth losing all of this for some worthless kid with delusions of grandeur?" Fordham replied, his voice still stone cold. "The Bureau ain't looking at you right now, but any wrong move could put you back in our eyes."

"Mr. Marston… please! You gotta save me!" The Cowtipper continued to cry as Fordham got back into the car, and it started to drive off.

"Bye, Mr. Marston." Archer Fordham said before the car was gone for good. "Ross would've come too but he's busy with planning something big, or so he tells me."

"I'm sorry, kid." John Marston turned back to the house. "But I'm not losing this family again."

"Is it all over?"

"Yeah, Abigail. It is."

"What are you gonna do now, John?"

"Tomorrow, I think I'm gonna take Jack huntin' boars. But now, all I need is some sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

"That's the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard." Jack Marston sighed as he stood up and walked away from the campfire.

"How would you know? Were you there?" The Fiddle Man barked at Jack.

"Yes. For the record… Jack Marston didn't spend himself pissin' his fright away while his daddy got beat up by the Cowtipper before a cougar wandered in and took out the Cowtipper for him."

"Well, how the hell did you know?"

Jack Marston showed them the scar on his cheek while unholstering his guns and twirling them in his hands. "Cause I am Jack Marston and I was there."

"Holy shit! Killer outlaw!" The Fiddle Man's face was masked with fear. "The papers said he murdered a Bureau man and his entire family for kicks! I'm outta here! With me, my band!" In a speed that bewildered Marston, the Fiddle Man had set up his carriage at a record speed all by himself and kicked off. A few seconds later, Jack heard the sound of a carriage being toppled in the far distance. Following was the sound of a cougar roaring and a man screaming until all was suddenly silent.

"Um… what just happened?"

"Aw, geez… don't hurt us, mister!" The remaining of the band, none of who had followed the Fiddle Man, cowered.

"Relax. The papers tell bullshit. I only killed the Bureau man, I didn't touch a hair on his family. Besides, it wasn't just for kicks. Rest easy, now, the lot of ya. I don't hurt innocent people unless they not so innocent underneath."

"Really? Well then… does this mean that the Terrible Cowtipper was actually real? I thought it was just some bullshit tale the Boss made up like most of his other happy crappy."

"Well… sorta. Not the way he tells it." Jack said. "There was no shoot-out that resulted in John Marston slayin' over a hundred cow tippers, or a fatal three-way between him, the Terrible Cowtipper, and a wild cougar. In fact, he didn't even deliver the Cowtipper back to the authorities. The Bureau showed up directly to Beecher's Hope and dragged the kid away screaming."

"So what happened to the Terrible Cowtipper then?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's rottin' away in a jail cell. Or maybe he's out there somewhere…" Jack thought. "But enough of that. I'm off to bed. I've had enough verbal craziness for a night."

* * *

Jack Marston was dreaming peacefully. It was an odd dream, of a man erecting a fence around his house in the frontier while the sun around him set. But before he could see this dream to fruition, he felt a sharp kicking in his ribs. Jack woke up sharply, and swore before grabbing his guns and pointing them at his attacker. Was it the Fiddle Man, out for a late-night bit of revenge? But instead it was merely that goddamn girl he saw hanging around the campfire who was dressed like a boy.

"What the hell do ya want, ya tranny punk?" Jack muttered rather grouchily, because it was a second earlier than when he normally woke up and he had not yet had his coffee yet.

"I need ta talk ta ya. You see, I was hitchin' with them musical fellas not for the sights but for a personal vendetta of mine…"

"Goddamn it, talk then. You lucky I ain't the kind of fella who'd blow out a kid's face just for wakin' him up early." Jack continued to mutter.

"You might say I was out for a bit of red dead retribution." She tossed a poster at Jack's feet. Jack looked down. It couldn't be… his pa had put this man behind bars. But sketched out on the poster in front of him was none other than the face of the Terrible Cowtipper himself, albeit with some differences. For instance, the rogue actually had some facial hair for once. Jack then noticed the reward for bringing in this felon, dead or alive.

One hundred thousand American dollars.

"Jesus Christ! All this for one lousy cowtipper?" Jack asked, astonished.

"He ain't no lousy cowtipper anymore. He's changed…" The girl clenched her fist.

"What do you mean?"

"No one knows for certain, but while this fella was in prison after John Marston helped put him away, his mind became warped and fixated on the one family he blamed for his downfall. He don't even tip cows anymore."

"So why they still callin' him the Terrible Cowtipper on this wanted poster?" Jack asked.

"Well, you see, he's now simply choosin' to gun down the cows with a giant gatling gun, and no one in Armadillo knew how ta' spell Terrible Cowmassacrerer. But the cows ain't the only thing he's gone murdering. He knows that it was a trio of Marstons that ended his first reign of terror. A Pa, a Ma, and a son. So any family with a role just like that he adds to his kill count. My family was one of them. And they ain't the first or the last."

"Jesus… and you went after him for revenge?" Jack said, bewildered.

"Yeah, guns I have on me belonged to my own Pa. But the more time I spend on the road, I realize I'm outta my league. Can't even fire this without the recoil makin' a laughingstock outta my aim. Can't even dress like my regular self cause of all the sickos roamin' these roads. But then last night I realize that I'm now in the very company of the notorious Jack Marston himself. And I thought to myself, maybe I can be trained by him to shoot like a Marston."

"I'm sorry. I can't do that." Jack shook his head. "My life and my Pa's life ain't no glamor shows. Go on back to your home and fami" He shut his mouth as he noticed her expression. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

"Listen to me, Mr. Marston. I have nothing left to go back to. My entire family's dead and my guns' are all I got to make somethin' right of their passing."

"I'll do it."

"Do what? Train me."

"Aw, heck no. But I'll hunt him down for ya. And I can lend ya all of the cash rewards. Ain't any cash sum or killer in the grave ever gonna be big enough to replace a lost family, but it will help get ya back on your feet to whatever future you have."

"I wanted to be the one that put a bullet between his two egg whites, but I guess the money is fine… enough. Thanks, I guess." The girl said, looking at the ground. "You sure you don't want the bucks, mister? $100,000, I mean, that's gonna be enough to clear that big bounty the Bureau placed on ya."

"It was more than enough to clear my name. But you gone need it more than me. I'd just lose it in a hand of poker anyhow." Jack said as he whistled for his horse. "Where you gonna be. I need to know where I'm gonna deliver the reward when I put that Terrible Cowtipper down."

"Plainview. Don't worry about my own safety. I may be no good with a pair of six-shooters, but I'm handy enough with another old tool of my Pa's." She took out a hunting knife. "What about you? Where are you gonna go after huntin' him down? You still a wanted man, after all."

"What my father did. Ride forward and hope that my compass will lead me to the place where I wanna end up. Giddy-yup!" Jack whooped as his horse reared upward, the cries of the mare resonating across the landscape. And with a flurry of hooves, Jack was off to put an end to the Terrible Cowtipper's crime spree for good.

**TO BE CONCLUDED**


	4. Chapter 4

It was a field of cows. There were a lot of cows in this field, minding their own cow business, the only sound being an occasional moo. Farmer Brown and his family were herding the cattle back to their pens when suddenly they heard the sound of a carriage rattling into their field. Without warning, the back of the carriage opened up. The rattling of a gatling gun filled the air, followed by the sounds of dying cows as the bullets tore them apart. Farmer Brown and his family could duck for cover behind a thick rock formation as their field was flooded by shredded beef. As the smoke cleared, and the gun revved down, the Brown family stepped out from their cover with their hands up. Stepping out of the carriage was a bulky, muscular man with a devilish set of facial hair. He wore an overcoat saddled with weaponry along with a top hat adorned with the carved off bits of dead cattle. It was none other than the Terrible Cowtipper.

"Aw, Jaysus! Please don't kill u-ugh" Followed by a crack as the Terrible Cowtipper smashed his rifle butt into Farmer Brown's cheek, and Farmer Brown was writhing on the dirty ground as he spat out half of his teeth. "Pl-pl" The Cowtipper kicked him, taking out the other half of his teeth.

"A family of three. One man, one woman, one boy. Perfect." The Terrible Cowtipper smiled, his teeth white and reflecting the sunlight so strongly it blinded the Brown family when he opened his mouth.

Their screams echoed across the empty west for miles.

* * *

**A few days later**

"Jesus Christ…. looks like I was too late here." Jack shook his head as he gazed at the carnage ahead of him. There was a gaping hole in the fence, where the Terrible Cowtipper's carriage had smashed through. The entire field stank of rotten crap and gunsmoke, filled to the rim with the torn-up corpses of cattle which had been torn apart by the Cowtipper's Gatling gun. And in the center of it all, arranged like a pretty vase of flowers, were the desiccated bits of the Brown farmers.

Jack's eyes focused on the corpses for just a fraction of a second, and he whipped his head around, keeled over and vomited. Dear lord, he thought he had seen some fucked up shit in his life, but this… this was the work of master sadists. He wondered if his Pa had ever seen anythin' this sick… hell, done anythin' this sick, during his outlaw or bounty huntin' days and wondered just how he managed to handle all of this without goin' crazy.

He investigated the area, mucking his way through the carnage. At least there were wagon tracks, so he had a clue of where the Terrible Cowtipper was heading next. Well, looks like he was not going to have more luck besides that in this place. Jack whistled for his horse. It was time to get moving again, and hopefully this time he'd catch up to the Cowtipper before he managed to hit another ranch.

* * *

He followed the wagon tracks through the dusty trails, not stopping even to catch a quick wink of sleep. But as he had expected, he couldn't follow these tracks forever. A few miles from Armadillo the tracks became mixed up with other tracks from other carriages and wagons. And as he got to Armadillo, the tracks split off into all different directions. West, South, North, and East. He had no idea of telling which one was the right direction, and he supposed that pursuing each lead one-at-a-time would only waste time and cost more lives.

Jack decided to ask around town. Surely someone would have to have remembered a shifty looking carriage passing through town, and would have a good gander of where it had gone. He walked into the bounty offices, only to see that the walls where the tellers would be were splashed with blood and bullet holes. He stepped outside, and approached the man selling papers.

"Um, excuse me sir, but would you mind tellin' me why there's nobody alive inside there?"

"Well, you see, a few days ago, a carriage rolled through town and the people ridin' it just waltzed in there and blew them workers to hell. They rode off with all of Armadillo's lawmen on their tails…"

"You see where they go?"

"Nah, I was too busy… um… hidin' here, if you get what I'm tryin' to say here."

"Well, thanks anyways." Jack sighed and walked away. He had little luck with the rest of the town. The shopkeeper in the general store offered him little help, and his cryptic rambling launched into a full-blown tirade regarding how the Cowtipper's reign of terror was all a collaborative plot by the Jews and their nigger underlings. When he asked the guy playing five-finger fillet, he caused the man to lose concentration and slice off his own finger. Jack quickly slipped out of that area before things turned real ugly. He dare not ask the actual lawmen since he after all still was a wanted man.

Then he heard a voice. Sickening sweet, female. He didn't have to guess who it was coming from. Jack turned around and saw a skimpily-dressed hooker, baring her breasts and smiling her cherry-red painted lips at him. "He-ey, sugar. Hear you've been asking around for a Terrible Cowtipper."

"Is that so?"

"Well, ah thought ya might like ta know somethin'. Every month or so, the Terrible Cowtipper rolls into town with money he took from the people he's murdered."

"And the lawmen don't do anythin' to stop him?" Jack asked. This lady had to be full of steaming horseshit.

"Well, they all scared of him. Ever since Marshal Johnson retired, ah reckon their balls shriveled real bad. Last time he roll into town and shot up a few folks, they didn't even bother pursuin' him once he reached the outskirts. They didn't even bother firin' any shots while they was at it, too."

"So what does the Cowtipper do while he's here?"

"Blows his money away like it was the rapture. Mostly he loses his greenbacks playin' cards but sometimes he indulges in one of us workin' ladies. Last time, he picked me and ah showed him my goods. He said some things to me… like the possibility of branchin' out into other sorts of crime. Mentioned hittin' the bank in Blackwater, fa instance."

"Tell me more." Jack said, mildly intrigued.

"Well, ah don't give away information for free, honey. But ah'm certain you'll be willin' to work out a deal with me. What sorta scarred 'nd rugged bounty hunta such as yourself don't enjoy a bit of casual fun?"

"I'm the exception, I guess. Surely I can just give you some cash and you'll spill whatever you've been hidin' behind those repulsive lips of yours?"

"Ah, yer a funny one. But yes, ah might be able to do that… but we do that in my room. If anyone sees me takin' the sum of cash I'm gonna need from you, ah might be puttin' myself inta danger."

"Fine then, have it your way." Jack followed the prostitute into the Armadillo saloon. The sound of glass breaking and rinky-dink piano music hit his hears, followed by the overwhelming smell of booze and urine. He carefully stepped over the brawling men, narrowly dodging a chair thrown across the room. He was lucky he made it to the stairs in one piece. He followed the prostitute upstairs, and into a room she opened. As he did, he swore he heard another door nearby unlock.

He walked into the prostitute's room, where she was bending over the bed and pulling something out of a bag.

"Well, how much is your price?" Jack asked.

"You see…" She whipped around, a revolver pointed directly at Jack. "It's gone be the price of your head, ah'm afraid."

"Jesus Christ! What the hell, woman?" Jack asked. She didn't answer him but she shouted to someone else. "Hey fellas! I got a bounty hunter right where the Cowtipper wants 'im!"

Jack heard the door behind him being busted down. He heard the cocking of two weapons. A shotgun and two revolvers. He reckoned there were either two or three guys behind him, and one crazy lady with heat in front of him. In other words, they still didn't bring enough guns and guys to take down a Marston.

Jack fired at the prostitute's revolver, blasting it out of her hands. He managed to catch the shotgun goon in the chest, throwing his aim off just as he pulled his shotgun's trigger. Out went the lights as the shotgun pellet hit it. Jack leapt over the bed as the other guy opened fire with his revolvers, ducking below the mattress. Damn idiot was actually trying to kill him with two guns at once. It didn't seem to be working. He hadn't seen someone's aim this off since he saw a cat accidentally discharge a rifle. He then heard clicking of empty chambers.

"What the hell? It worked in that penny novel I read!"

"Well, life ain't a penny novel, dumbass." Jack said as he fired one shot from his revolver. There was the sound of lead hitting flesh, followed by a body slumping to the floor. Then came the crying. Jack saw a bit of sheared flesh on the prostitute's leg. One of two-gun guy's bullets had managed to catch her. She had led him into a trap, he ought to have shot her for that. But hey, she might still know something.

"Sorry lady, but I prefer to keep my head on my shoulders."

"Don't kill me!"

"Tell me what you know, and I'll let you live."

"Head… heading to Beecher's Hope!"

"Beecher's Hope? But there ain't no cattle ranch there!" But at least he finally had a location. He descended down the stairs. The saloon was deserted. All the brawling men must've deserted the joint as soon as the gunbattle upstairs had started. Jack made it outside, expecting lawmen to start firing at him at any second. But Armadillo was deserted. Jack boarded his horse and rode off towards Beecher's Hope.

* * *

He'd have loved to have stopped for a quick drink at Macfarlane's ranch, but he was urgently driven back to his childhood home. He wondered if this had been all campaign of vengeance by the Terrible Cowtipper. Had all this senseless campaign of carnage been just to attract Jack's attention? John had been the one to put the TC away the first time, but now that John and Abigail were both dead, the outlaw had only one outlet for enacting his vengeance.

Jack was laying still on his stomach, hiding in the grass with a pair of binoculars, on a small hill overlooking Beecher's Hope. It seemed that the Terrible Cowtipper and his posse had access to more than one of his gun-mounted carriages. Two of those hulking horse-drawn vehicles of destruction were waiting there, in the clearing where his father had made his final stand, waiting for Jack to come. Well, he saw no sign of the Terrible Cowtipper. Just a whole bunch of goons waiting about. That left him the problem of taking out both the carriages and all the thugs walking about. Jack was certain that the goons would be no problem, but those Gatling guns looked like they could tear through him in a matter of seconds.

Jack checked his inventory. He had a few sticks of dynamite on him in addition to his guns. Yeah, these could certainly help in taking down those carriages. He crawled closer towards Beecher's Hope, when inexplicably a pack of wild wolves ran into the ranch and began to attack the goons. Well, he hadn't counted on that, but he reckoned that was the distraction he needed to move a bit faster. He heard the Gatling gun on one of the carriages wind up and begin to fire. Well, this was a long shot but if anyone could make it, he supposed it could be him. Peering into the scope of his Carcano, Jack aimed at the Gatling gun and fired. The bullet struck the side of the spinning gun and caused it to jam. It blew up in its gunner's face, knocking the carriage onto its side. The carriage caught on fire, becoming a flaming coffin for its inhabitants. Jack made his move as the Cowtipper's henchmen began to go hysterical in the chaos.

Jack lit the fuse on his dynamite and threw it underneath the second carriage. Before the Gatling gun even had a chance to begin spinning, the carriage blew high to the heavens. The remaining henchmen noticed Jack and pulled out their guns. But Jack was quicker than them. With lightning-fast reflexes, and pinpoint accuracy, Jack used his revolver to gun down nearly all the henchman in the span of a half a minute. The last goon seeing Jack, grabbed a hostage. Which just happened to be a cougar wandering through the area. Jack looked away as the goon was torn apart, before scaring the cougar off with a gunshot. With all the goons dead, Jack took a quick breather. He heard the steps of someone creeping up behind him, the sleek sound of a knife being unsheathed.

"You're gonna look mighty funny with that knife sticking out of your ass." Jack commented as he wired around to face the Terrible Cowtipper.

"No, it shall be you!" The Cowtipper lunged at Jack Marston. Jack rolled out of the way, and fired off one bullet, knocking the knife out of the Cowtipper's hands.

"Terrible Cowtipper, I'm bringin' you to justice!" Jack proclaimed.

"Wrong. This day shall end with your death, and I shall finally have my vengeance and the fame that I have always craved!"

"Are you serious?" Jack asked.

"All my life, I have been nothing. Your blasted parents prevented me from enjoying the infamy that I so rightfully earned in my original campaign of terror! Do you have any idea what it's like being tossed in the slammer, and the only thing that prevents you from offing yourself is knowing that one day, you will make it out strong enough to kill the fucker that put you there in the first place?"

"My pa was the one that put you away. You ain't got no quarrel with me."

"You helped! And now that John Marston has died, it is only fitting that you, the last remaining vestige of him on this Earth, falls at my hands!"

"C'mon! It's not like tipping cows was gonna get you much fame anyhow! At best, you'd be remember as that eccentric nuisance!"

"Fuck you, Jack! Did you know how meticulously planned my cowtipping was? It was a novel concept! I was the first of my kind!"

"I'm just saying you could've done somethin' really frightenin' like robbin' a bank or killin' the governor, that's all."

"That's exactly what I'm planning to move onto… once I kill you, Jack! Jack Marston, I challenge you to a showdown!" The Terrible Cowtipper motioned to his gunbelt.

"If that's what you want… sure I'll give you a showdown!"

Jack and the Terrible Cowtipper stood across from each other, surrounded by the remains of carnage in the spot where this bizarre feud had begun. The air was silent. The atmosphere tense. Not even a bead of sweat fell. And then, the Cowtipper made a move for his guns. Jack rapidly snatched his revolver and fired off a shot. The Cowtipper screamed as the bullet shattered his hand, knocking his gun out of his hand. Jack moved quickly as the Cowtipper started to run back, and used his lasso to catch the fleeing outlaw. Working just how his pa had shown him, Jack had the Cowtipper tied up in matter of seconds.

"Fuck you! Why didn't ya kill me! I could've at least had a bit of infamy that way!"

"Well, y'see, I reckoned that you ought to be put in the ground for all the innocent folks you've murdered. But y'see, there are a ton of folks who probably need a bit of cash to rebuild after bein' caught up in your little ride of carnage. And the way I figure, I'll get a bit more cash bringing you to Blackwater alive. Then I might actually have a bit to keep for myself to make my own name clean, and all the folks who lost friends and family to you will have the pleasure of seein' you hang."

"I hate you, Jack Marston! Damn you and your family!"

"Yeah, many have." Jack sighed as he hoisted the cursing Cowtipper onto the back of his horse. He struck the Cowtipper on the head, knocking him out. It was only a moderate ride to Blackwater, but he didn't quite feel compelled to listen to this moron jabber on any longer. Without a further moment's hesitation, Jack spurred his horse and he rode with his bounty off into the sunset.


End file.
